Birds Flying High
by Trins xxx
Summary: Part 1 of the Feeling Good series. AU where Elia Martell weds Jaime Lannister, and Rhaegar Targaryen weds Cersei Lannister. What would have happened? What would have changed?
1. I

**Disclaimer** **:** I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own Game of Thrones.

 **Author's Note** **:** I don't know if anyone else felt frustrated or disgusted or infuriated, when they heard that little line about Prince Rhaegar and annulment. It made me all of the above and this was my ultimate solution to the number of 'What Ifs' we have in relation to Elia Martell and Rhaegar Targaryen. This was intended to be a series of one-shots, with each chapter depicting what could have happened had Elia married x, and Rhaegar married y, going through all of the different incarnations. As you can tell if you've read this, it became a lot more detailed that I had initially intended. So instead, there will be a series of stories, part of my **Feeling Good** series, with this being Part 1, all depicting the What Ifs of had Elia and Rhaegar married someone else.

Feedback is always welcome, positive and negative. So please don't hesitate to tell me anything you liked or hated.

* * *

 **Birds Flying High**

It was darker than pitch black where Elia crouched, so dark that were she to hold her hands before her, she wouldn't see them. It was dusty enough to tingle her nose and she was certain that she felt what could only be spiders crawling over her feet. She nevertheless stood perfectly still, ear next to the little channel that connected her crevice and that of the Ruler of Dorne's official solar. It was genius, the builders who had planned this with the Martells who had approved it – the perfect area to spy from, to warn of danger to the Rulers of Dorne, were it necessary.

It definitely wasn't necessary now. Doran was of no danger to his mother, Moniellar Martell. His mother, however, looked in distinct danger of strangling him.

'And is there a reason you feel presumptuous enough to comment to me, your mother and _your Lady_ , of who you think Elia should wed?' _When you yourself so selfishly chose love, leaving us in a politically fraught position_ , her eyes spoke rather than her lips. It was a miracle she hadn't yet slapped him with her slippers, as she had been wont to do whenever they had misbehaved as kids. Still, it was early on in the conversation and it could still change.

'Because I care about my sister,' Doran replied, cool as the water gardens in the middle of the night.

'And _I_ do not?' Moniellar did nothing to keep her voice low. She slapped the table hard as if it were the table that had offended her so personally.

'I think you care more of the wound to your pride that you had received from Lannister,' Doran's voiced his cutting assessment honestly. Too honestly, Elia feared, her heart jumping into her mouth as she waited for her mother to go into one of her wild rages that only her children seemed to attract. _Others have common sense and self-preservation_ , she had once told them, soothing them after a severe spanking (that admittedly had been well earned – Elia was lucky she hadn't broken any bones, falling out of the window as she had done).

'A Dornish princess on the throne has always been beneficial to her people,' Moniellar suddenly looked tired, aged beyond her years. She was speaking honestly to her heir now.

'With a mad king on the throne?' Doran asked incredulously.

'Especially with a mad king on the throne,' Moniellar finally replied, a ghost of horror haunting her face for a moment, before Elia turned, swallowing the painful egg in her throat, lest she let her brother and mother find out she had been eavesdropping. She left as quickly as she could, short of running. No need to call attention to herself right now; she'd rather nobody saw her woebegone. Entering her chambers, she locked it from inside and threw herself onto her bed, losing herself to the tears that came out in floods that were angry as much as they were desperate. Was this to be her life? Sold like a whore? And if the mad king continued in his violent, blood-thirsty ways, would they mourn her? Would they even remember her to mourn her?

At least her brother had tried, she thought, fighting the guilt that she could have ever doubted Doran. For all his lectures, he had always been the one to sneak her sweets. She refused dinner and denied entry to everyone, choosing that for this day alone, she would be selfish. After this, her life would belong to Dorne, as it always had. And the Targaryens, she added with gloom.

* * *

The letter was from Dorne. Tywin Lannister held the offending object in hands that were as dry as the parchment. It held the Martell seal and he felt familiar anger stirring. He pushed it down, deep enough where he could not recall the resentment he had sometimes held towards his otherwise beloved wife. He would not let _emotions_ rule his judgment. He wasn't a blasted _Targaryen_ , the Seven help those inbred fools.

He opened it, reluctantly. If the idiotic king chose a lying viper as his good-daughter, that was his own stupidity and the Curses of the Seven fall on him. The gloating would still boil his anger, as it had all those years ago, blast the Martells to the Other's Mercy. He'd always known that the Dayne woman would never be considered worthy of the Prince; her wanton ways were infamous far beyond Dorne (helped by his own tactfully placed whispers). Elia Martell had, somehow, managed to keep her reputation intact, despite the ways of her whorish mother and father.

He found himself reading the letter once, twice, thrice, and more times besides. He found himself peering closely at it, sniffing it for poison. He smelt nothing – not that he knew the first thing of poison but he had no intention of succumbing to Dornish duplicity. Not that he frowned upon poison as a means of achieving one's problems; battles were glorious only in stories and songs, more often they were a hassle and uncertain, and if poison could achieve things more to one's liking, why not? Even so, the words written in the familiar writing still fostered disbelief in him.

His immediate anger, his resentment, the burning jealousy that still found him in unguarded moments had his fingers twitching to pen an insulting rejection once again. Once was clearly not enough for the Martell woman to get his message. But he had heard the whispers – Aerys wanted a woman of Targaryen blood, Elia Martell was the only option, Ashara Dayne's reputation far too tarnished to be anything but an insult. If Elia Martell was no longer an option, Aerys would finally have to accept another woman, and the only viable option would be Cersei. Slowly, his plans changed, morphed like the changing faces of the clouds.

The things he could do if he could place his daughter on the throne… The Prince was an idiot, more interested in books than politics or people. Or power. He could teach Cersei to behave herself, or at least to utilise her brain. Once he had hoped that Jaime would have been his heir in nature as well as person, but he had soon found that Cersei had had both his ambition, and that of Joanna too, as if she had taken it from Jaime himself. Yet she had none of either of their wits. Meanwhile Jaime had all of Joanna's good nature but no ambition. Tywin couldn't quite bring himself to imagine his house in ruins, a phantom of what it had once been. His father had nearly destroyed it, and he had to stop his son from doing the same. If he had to sell his daughter to a Mad King and an easily manipulated Prince, he would do it.

His smile was thinner than his lips, but there was satisfaction there. And if it was a way of serving Moniellar a mean trick, of keeping her on her best behaviour with her daughter as a hostage in all but name, well… What could he do if all of his birds were lining up to be struck with one stone?

* * *

She was lying in their private gardens, her scandalously bare back glistening in the sun, soaking it's heat and warmth and life force when Doran and her mother found her. Elia could tell from their purposeful steps and the disinterest with which Moniellar dismissed the maid that it was the raven they had been waiting for.

 _They_ , not her, she thought with a spark of bitterness. They had both found love in their marriages, companionship and closeness and a certain safety, that too. What would await her in the cold hells of the Red Keep? A mad king, and a prince with no interest in protecting the seven kingdoms? The thought had led to more nightmares that she cared to recall, and those nightmares, horribly vivid, ominously prophetic nightmares had led her to empty her stomach more than once.

She took her time to sit up, rearranging the breezy, cheery yellow chiffon she wore, as bright as the sunlight, to offer a little more modesty. She took time to run her fingers through her straight black hair that glinted almost blue in the heavy midday sunlight. Darkening her skin as she soaked up the sun was her own, personal revenge against the Targaryens, whatever it may cost her once she got there. In the meantime, she enjoyed her mother's growing impatience. The little power she had, she would enjoy it, even (especially) if it discomfited her mother.

'Do you not care who you are to wed, child?' Her mother finally snapped, her foot tapping the rhythm of her anger. Elia coolly raised an eyebrow, ignoring the way her stomach plummeted to the soles of her feet that brushed against the surprisingly cool grass.

'Need I ask, mother?' She forced through lips that were dry.

'Tywin Lannister has given you his blessings to wed his son and heir, Jaime Lannister.'

It was clear that even Doran hadn't known; his mouth was as agape as her own. 'Mother?' Doran finally asked, and Elia was grateful because she couldn't speak right now. And she had to know, to clarify, before her hopes rose higher than they already had.

'You dare think I would sacrifice my daughter, my only daughter,' (why this was significant remained a mystery to both of her children present), 'for an insignificant, irrelevant slight? A slight I barely recall?' Moniellar looked like a vengeful desert witch, with her skin burning dark in the sunlight, her black eyes narrowed with a martial glint and her stance promising regret to any who might disagree. Neither of her kids dared demur or point out the falsity of her statements.

'I am to wed Jaime Lannister?' Elia asked, her throat dry, though she had just finished a glass of the lemon sugar water and it still glistened on her lips. It was still not the man who haunted her dreams when she least expected it, but a sane Good-father could be reasoned with, and a man who lived in this world she could come to care for. It was better than the prison the Red Keep had seemed like, and her eyes shone with renewed hope. Moniellar pushed down any thought of political triumph and pushed away the panic she felt at Tywin's jealous eyes on her daughter. Elia was no weakling with milk in her blood, it was filled with venom and her spirit was made of fire, and she would be a match for the Lannister Lord. They would train her to protect herself. It was the only thing that stopped Moniellar from forcing her to become a Septa then and there.

* * *

The battle raged loud and violent, and the victims were often the innocent crockery and the servants. It was a little odd, when Jaime spared a thought for it. This was his life and his marriage they were discussing, yet it was Cersei battling her father. It was only when an armistice was reached – when Tywin had finally told his daughter his plans to wed her to the Crown Prince, that Elia Martell – 'flat chested, dark-skinned ugly whore', as per Cersei's descriptions – was deemed a more desirable bride than herself, that Jaime thought to question whether it was truly on his behalf. After all, hadn't Cersei shown just how much more she sought to be Princess to Rhaegar than whatever she was to Jaime (beloved beyond belief)? It was still a sword into the chest, whenever he thought of somebody else holding Cersei, cherishing Cersei, never looking after her though, for she could look after herself.

Still, of all the options, Elia Martell was hardly the worst of them. He couldn't picture her, just a vague approximation of colours and shapes, but he remembered her kindness. He remembered her smile when she first saw Tyrion, her gentle hands caressing him when Cersei's had pinched. Perhaps it shouldn't be, but Jaime's future felt trapped between those of his siblings, Cersei whom he loved too much and in not the right way, and Tyrion who had nobody else to look after or love him. Perhaps this marriage with Elia Martell could benefit someone, even if not him.

It was wild and stormy when they set sail for Sunspear, the sky dark and the clouds enraged as they hadn't been for weeks. The Martell girl would wed at Casterly Rock but according to their customs and their insistence, the Lannisters would travel to Sunspear to collect her first. Jaime's father had glared at him as if this was somehow his fault. Nevertheless, once the storms had passed, delaying them by a full seven days, they boarded the ships.

They first stopped at Starfall, where they met Lord Amar Dayne and his beautiful wife, Lady Aino Dayne, a second daughter, fourth child with no prospects to recommend her other than beauty. It certainly wasn't charm, for she was colder than Cersei's expression. She had blonde hair and she was slim but she had none of the arresting features that Cersei possessed – none of that imperial manner or a demand for the world to bend its ways for her. He still flirted with her, outrageously at times, partially to infuriate Cersei and partially to infuriate the beautifully icy Lady Dayne. Yet, when he closed his eyes, he dreamt of Cersei in his arms and a vague, dark spectre looming over them.

They travelled over the mountains and through the dessert, stopping at all of the great Houses along the way. It was only outside Sunspear that Jaime realised it was a royal procession of sorts, and he doubted very much it had anything to do with the Lannisters themselves. He saw her before he even entered Sunspear, saw her astride a beautiful Sand Steed, red as blood with white hooves, which had his own heart clenching on her behalf; her frailty was well known. When he drew closer on his own horse, he finally saw her clearly, the dry wind blowing her hair wildly around her, face bright and alight with laughter as she talked to her brother, and his heart this time leapt into his mouth. For the first time, he thought maybe the marriage might even bring some sort of happiness to him.

* * *

The cries were deafening but by no means displeasing. 'Long live the Princess,', 'Glory for our Princess,' 'Bless our Elia,' were cries that rose again and again, and those were only the ones that Elia heard clearly. Behind her, she had seen Tywin scrutinising her openly, but Jaime had looked admiring. Rightfully so, for he should know what a prize he was winning unto himself. They rode through the crowds at a sedate pace. Even with the guards shielding the peace, there was always a curious child or two, scrambling free from their parents' protective arms and rushing to the horses. Elia muscles protested but from practice, she ignored them. She had long learned how best to fight the rumours of her frailty. Sure, she would not be able to march an army onto a battle, she probably wouldn't be able to keep up a sprint or ride a horse wildly, but her frailty was vastly exaggerated. And by that despicable Tully, who was no doubt trying to crown his own daughter. Even Cersei would be a superior choice, Elia could easily acknowledge that. Cersei's personality was brash and left much to be desired, but she still had a personality, unlike Catelyn Tully. And her sister was known to have given her maidenhead freely to some nonentity.

It made her suddenly grin wickedly. Even when there had been nearly proof positive that Tully was behind those rumours, Moniellar had insisted that Lannister had whispered those words into Tully's ears. Her father had not been far behind, insisting that Lannister had probably bedded the younger Tully sister himself. She imagined Tywin Lannister's reaction if he heard these words, and her grin, wide and wild and uninhibited spread, as she caught Jaime's eyes. She could imagine his reaction too; she could remember his laughter ringing loudly and merrily, whenever they had caught him unexpectedly. He wasn't one for undue pride.

They entered the large, central courtyard, and with ease, Elia swung herself off, pointedly with no aid. As soon as her feet had touched the ground, she swept into a curtsey as if she had not just been upon a horse for several hours, waiting for the Lannisters to dismount. The cries continued outside but the palpable tension held the lips silent here. Silent enough that she heard them as they stepped onto the ground. Once she was sure they had all descended, she continued the curtsey for several seconds before finally rising, pushing past her sore muscles.

Jaime was staring at her. With a quirk of her lips, watching him watch her as the twirls of her hair danced around her face, she turned and sauntered to stand behind her mother. Tywin she would have to contend with, Jaime she would win over, and this was a good start.

The evening started with Dornish dishes and their traditional music. Before wine had even touched her lips, Elia found herself dancing with first one lord, and then another, her hips moving to the rhythm with natural skill, drunk with the jubilation. Turning this way, then twirling back, she could still see Jaime's eyes following her. The heady scent and the flattery flowing from the lips of her partners created a high. It wasn't surprising that she found herself in her suitor's arms, and less surprising that she found herself leading him in dances he was unfamiliar with, his smile matching hers. It was only when they sat down for the formal meal and Ashara Dayne, in a wispy dress of lilac, wandered over, that Elia felt the first stifling of her euphoria.

* * *

Cersei was beautiful. Elia was striking. Ashara was something else altogether. From her curvaceous body, to her full lips made for kissing, to her large violet eyes proclaiming her vulnerability, to her delicate face, she inspired in men a desire to protect. Jaime was no different. He felt the urge to protect her, yet it was with relief that he would sit and converse with Elia or Cersei. Lady Ashara commented on how horribly the red dress clashed with Lady Delia Vaclav's complexion. Cersei would have said the only thing worse than that dress was the Lady's propensity to drink. Elia would have said, ever so politely, what a wonderful idea it was to wear the red dress, the better to hide the wine stains. As stunning as Lady Ashara was, she was equally dull, and Jaime was increasingly grateful that he was to wed someone like Elia, someone with wits sharper than her nails, with words that lashed painfully all the more for how quietly she said them.

Somehow, without knowing what the test was, he had passed it with Elia, for her smiles became warmer. Now that he'd had time to analyse the variety of her smiles, he could tell that they were sincere towards him. She allowed him to see her claws, where initially, she had been the perfectly polite, cordial hostess. It pleased him as much as it perplexed him.

They travelled through Dorne, to the great establishments they had missed on their way to Sunspear, and Jaime could now vouch that the entirety of Dorne loved Elia and her family. They never heard voices raised in anything but jubilation and blessings. And once, when he had ventured forth at dawn, he could understand why. Elia, without any finery or display, had ventured into the local markets, taking food from their own tables to those in need. She had dined with them, conversed with them, held their hands and let them hold hers. She had done so with no fanfare. It was a tradition, she'd answered when he had asked. They all did so once a week, Doran less often because he was now helping his mother with official duties. A reminder of how differently things could have been for them, had they been born to a different family. A lesson Tywin had never bothered to teach.

They reached Castley Rock. Cersei looked worse for wear than Elia did, for which Jaime was grateful. There was already venom against her Dornish birth and upbringing. There would be further animadversions based on her Dornish colouring. It was a relief that she appeared to be disproving the rumours of her ill-health.

She was arresting on her wedding day; _their_ wedding day. The sun came out, as if to give her blessings, to acknowledge her as a child of their own, giving her a golden glow that those of fairer skin couldn't claim. The gentle puffs of wind enhanced her exotic appearance, her dark hair let down in all its glossy glory, drifting this way and that as if swaying with contentment. Her yellow gown that was just this side of scandal, a little lower than it should be, just a touch diaphanous, her shoulders laid bare to the sun, suited her perfectly. Her orange cloak with her family's sigil made her magnificent.

His hands weren't sweating, nor were his hands shaking when he unclasped her cloak. They were even more vertain when Jaime covered her with his own cloak of red and gold. It looked faultless on her, she looked flawless, and somehow, this most felt like perfection.


	2. II

**Disclaimer** **:** I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire. Nor do I own Game of Thrones.

 **Author's Note** **:** A thank you to Hoegh, Jake.K, Raikiri's Edge, SUNSHINGIRL, SerBlackfyre5, Tsubaki-San, .1992, bryan brolsen, daenerys and khal drogo 4ever, devilsmaster2, iron aegis, justaddyoghurt, shailjajoshi37 and shin18theOtakubooklover for favouriting this story.

A thank you to Daisy96, Evaline101, Firefly-class, Hoegh, Jake.K, Majandra.21, SerBlackfyre5, Thedevilmaycrie, Zyphrost, .1992, annabellecutie, bryan brolsen, daenerys and khal drogo 4ever, jasonxo, shailjoshi37, shin18theOtakubooklover, and slaterbug for following this story.

Ann: Yeah, I preferred Elia and Rhaegar or Elia and Arthur Dayne initially, but I think there is possibility for Elia and Jaime to have, both chemistry and love. There seems to be a certain honour within Jaime's character, yet a certain ruthlessness that I can't help but imagine appealing to a Martell woman. Let's see how it works out for them though.

As always, both positive and negative feedback is greatly appreciated.

* * *

 **Birds Flying High**

Elia was wedded on a beautiful sunny day that felt like a blessing, but the day she arrived at Casterly Rock had been grey and gloomy, foreboding even. The building, while admirable, was oppressive and aloof, full of its own hauteur, much like its residents. Elia felt herself up to any challenge but even her confidence, her assurance, was challenged by these who did not even attempt to disguise their disdain. What could she do, brought up with manners and faced by those with none? How could she make a home for herself with these menacing people in this uninviting building? She set her shoulders, straightened her spine, and decided that it would be all the greater triumph for her, when she made such a place home.

She was not the only outcast. The three ladies who had travelled with her, Lady Emma Vaclav, and the sisters, Hermione and Willamina Wickaninnish, were pariahs by her association and courtesy of being Dornish. What surprised Elia was that little Tyrion Lannister was undoubtedly an outsider too.

The first time she had met him, he had stared at her with large eyes before rushing behind his Septa's skirts. He was anxious, she had realised, and kinship had stirred within her breast. No child should feel like this. Even less a child in his own home. What had that heartless father of his done to inspire such trepidation of strangers in such a little one? No guest in the Lannister abode would act out of turn had Tywin deemed it unacceptable, and that thought was unpalatable.

She offered him her friendship. She sought him out now and again until he became familiar with her presence. She then visited him everyday, spending time with him that delighted her as much as it delighted him. What a sharp one he was; he reminded her of Oberyn, so perceptive. He was far less mischievous but she made up for it. It eventually came to be that he would seek her out, whenever his lessons permitted him to, and she indulged him each and every time, careful to never turn him away. Even if she only had a minute spare, she would give it to him. So focused was she with little Tyrion Lannister that she never saw his father's eyes following her, watching her, never realised that the many ears Tywin owned heard every word that she told the Littlest Lord, who was the smallest in so many ways, and yet, had the biggest heart within his family.

The serving girls had also learnt that for all her foreign ways, they preferred Elia's soft words and kindness to Cersei's demands and tantrums. It was little wonder that Jaime Lannister preferred the same, the bravest of them whispered. For all their secrets, the masters and mistresses never noticed the servants and Cersei ignored them more than most. Her sinful relationship with her brother, her _twin brother_ , may the Maiden curse her, was known. It just wasn't known by anyone they deemed important.

Lady Elia Lannister, with her soft words and kind smiles and gentle eyes, was such a reprieve that they took particular care with her. They knew she preferred her rooms hotter than the others, so they took kindling from Cersei's rooms, and ensured the fires burnt hotter and longer in her chambers. She liked to break her fast with fruits; they couldn't find Blood Oranges for her, but they found whatever fruit they could and always ensured there were some in her solar. They took care of her, the way they carefully didn't care for Cersei.

* * *

She was ugly. She was dull. She was stupid. She had no breasts and far too wide hips. She had intolerance for shelled fish. The list could go on for hours, Cersei knew because she had spent hours upon hours dissecting exactly how inferior Elia Martell was to her. Elia _Lannister_ now, the filthy whore. The name alone infuriated Cersei beyond toleration; she felt like she was going mad, perhaps she would be an appropriate match for Rhaegar Targaryen after all?

The wedding itself didn't bother Cersei all that much. It nauseated her to see the Lannister name given to a wanton wench but still, what did a wedding mean exactly? It was the nights that Jaime spent in her chambers. Fucking the bitch, sure – that was expected. What need was there for him to stay the whole night with her, stench and all? Worse still, he had stopped coming to her, making love and all. The days had turned into weeks, and now the weeks were turning into months, and her arms, legs and lady parts remained devoid of Jaime's. And that – that was not acceptable. If she had to kill this snake, she would, to get her Jaime back.

The only question was how. Had her father not approved of the wedding, this wouldn't have even been a question. She would have wrung that skinny neck with her own bare hands. However, even if it had been a political move to expedite Cersei's ascension to the throne that would have been hers anyway, no matter what her father claimed, he opposed a death. Too suspicious, too quick, political turmoil, war with the Martells; excuses, she had accused him of. In turn, he had slapped her without regret. So unfortunately, openly killing her was out of the option. Not when her father would be displeased with her.

She would find another way. Cersei was nothing if not tenacious, and nothing made her more resolute than the brother she loved, the brother that belonged to her and nobody else, not even her father.

It wasn't as if Cersei was settled on killing the Elia bitch. She'd tried other options. She'd bribed the better looking of the knights around her to bed the girl but for all her wanton ways, the Dornish snake was smart. She'd resisted them, so much so that she had never even remained in a room alone with any man other than Jaime. And it wasn't just the three Dornish sluts that had kept her company; it would have been easy to spread rumours, of Elia's immoral ways and how she abused her women to lie for her. No, the woman had been smart enough to keep some of the Lannister's own handmaidens with her at all times.

Cersei had even paid for some of the less savoury men to try and forcefully bed her, with or without her will. They had never been given the opportunity.

The simplest answer was usually the correct one, her father had always said. The simplest answer was to kill Elia Martell (unworthy of being recognised as a Lannister), and that was the path Cersei would take.

A blade wouldn't work. Poison could, but the snake probably knew more about those than Cersei herself. The best bet was an accident. She often rode her horse, unskilled as a child, so who would wonder if an accident befell her? For no more than a silver dragon, she paid a large boy, with mean eyes and a nasty manner, to startle the horse. That talentless witch wouldn't have a chance to survive it.

* * *

The news came to Tywin first. A boy had startled Always Pure, Elia's personal Sand Steed, a boy with ugly manners and uglier demeanour. The horse had reared with Elia on it. She had luckily not let go of the reins, as so many fools would have done. She'd loosened her legs, allowed the horse to propel her movements, and she'd returned to the horse, inadequately but seated nonetheless. She'd dropped off the horse, some bruises and grazes adorning her but it wasn't the broken bones or broken neck everyone surrounding her had envisioned. From the words and tone of Lord Arnys Swyft, he had respected her horsemanship. For all that she never rode ventre à terre, she appeared to know her horse well. And when she had stumbled up to her feet, she had been clutching her stomach.

'I sent the Maester over to see her,' Lord Arnys Swyft told him, with the same amicability as his sister but far more personage.

'Of course,' Tywin's eyes were thin slits of concentration. How could he have missed such a thing? She had never been sick when she had first arrived at Casterly Rock, so why had he put her vomiting down to her innate frailty? It was a foolish error, no mistaking that. But one that had better not cost him a grandchild, an heir for his heir.

'Send Cersei to me,' his words were brisk as always but Lord Swyft was quick to recognise the displeasure and quicker to leave its vicinity.

She was untroubled when she entered the room, but one look at his face had Cersei guarded.

'I told you not to make any attempts on Elia's life,' he spoke with no preamble. Why waste words and time?

'I didn't…' she began but his temper snapped.

'Don't lie to me, child. Lie to someone who would believe it or lie better,' his anger didn't have him pacing, it had his victim pacing, blonde hair trailing behind her.

'Why do you care? You don't even like her,' she spat back, as if disobeying him wouldn't have consequences for her. She was far too spoilt, Tywin realised, if she thought he wouldn't punish her just because she was his daughter. How could he have brought up someone so derisible?

'And that gives you permission to go against my direct orders?'

She still wasn't quelled, she still had more than her lion's share of pride. 'I'm doing our family a favour, we don't need snakes here,' she retorted, eyes flashing with the passion Joanna had often shown but none of her insight.

'She's a Lannister now,' he said, his decision made, troubling as it would be.

'She'll never be a Lannister, it's not in her dirty nature,' Cersei fired back, hands clenched and spittle flying, her eyes crazed in her face. So it was this despicable business again? Joanna had tried to convince him that it was just childish curiosity and not the taint the Targaryens insisted on passing with their inbreeding. He'd never believed her then, it was even less convincing now, with both twins grown up.

'Maybe not,' he conceded. 'She's still carrying a Lannister, this house's future. Which you're not.'

Cersei reared back as if she had been slapped. The colour had left her face, she was as grey as the robes the Silent Sisters wore. Tywin waited for sympathy and found that he had none. Daughter of his she may be, but she had threatened the future of House Lannister. As if he could ever let that go unpunished? She'd learn this, easy way or hard.

* * *

Jaime heard about it through the lads that cleaned his weapons., once he had finished his training for the day.

'So when's the baby coming?' One of them had said to the other.

'My ma always said it takes five moons for a life to be destroyed,' the other had replied. Such nonsense. The boy had clearly been too young to understand his mother's implications, but Jaime's ears had pricked up and he'd headed straight for his father's solar, heedless of his sweat and grime.

He didn't know what a sorry sight he was, face whiter than the foam on the sea, hair clinging to his face as if he were in the throes of fever.

'Is it true?' he demanded of his perturbed father with eyes that looked feverish too. Of all his kids, Jaime had been Joanna's child the most, with a softness that he did his best to hide but which existed nonetheless. Jaime also knew that he was the child dearest to his father.

'Is what true?' Tywin asked cautiously, bewildered. He hadn't told a soul of his plans for his wayward daughter, hadn't confirmed any plans within his own head, so how could his son know?

'Is Elia with child?' Jaime was shaking now. He looked like he should be seeing a maester. Tywin became uneasy – a child was good news, great news really. Jaime was the future of Casterly Rock, he needed an heir, and for Elia to get with child so soon was promising for her fertility. It was too early to tell if she would face the same problems Moniellar had, but Tywin would ensure that the best of Maesters would be brought here, if necessary.

'She hasn't told me as such, but I suspect so, yes,' His dry comment that he was no woman, gossiping whenever he could was left unuttered, for any colour that Jaime had in his face disappeared. He swayed for a moment before rushing out of the solar. He didn't see the anxiety and confusion on his father's face - how Tywin couldn't figure him out. He couldn't understand Jaime's reaction to news that would have pleased any other man in the seven kingdoms.

Jaime's feet found him rushing without thought. It was involuntary where it had led him – where it had always led him. How awful must he look if one glance had Cersei immediately dismissing the maid from her chambers.

Before she could voice a question, his hands grasped her, held her so tightly that for a moment, she was scared, the words of the prophesy running through her mind. A moment later, all thoughts disappeared, as his lips found hers in a kiss that was desperate and passionate and sent her pulses on a mad scramble.

It was a short path from the kisses to the bed, and after a draught of several months, it felt like a flood. A tangle of flushed limbs and hot breaths and hotter kisses, and Jaime's pallor was replaced by a flush. He held Cersei close to his chest, close as she had always been, but let his gaze wander away. This felt like a promise – either a broken one or perhaps one he had cursed himself with? He'll take a flower to Elia tomorrow, he swore to himself. Cersei only liked the most perfect of roses but Elia loved all of the flowers, and she liked variety, never settling on just one favourite. He'll take an entire bunch of different flowers, selected carefully by him. Maybe it'll lessen the blow she didn't even know he'd dealt her.

* * *

Just as the warm nights she had spent in intimacy with Jaime in her bed had turned to weeks and months, so had the cold nights with his absence. The more time Elia spent alone in her cold bed, the colder her anger grew. The cold nights in the dessert were as dangerous to life and limb as the hot days. Just as dangerous was her cold anger. She couldn't even understand his sudden change, although she knew just where he was spending his nights.

The haughty blonde bitch always looked like a cat indulging in cream. Such conceit also loosened her tongue now. She never veiled her insults anymore, just caring to do it out of the hearing of her father and brother. It mattered not who else heard them. In small reparation, Cersei's dishes were sometimes lacking salt, other times with too much in it, and sometimes she was given the spicy food that Elia was craving instead. It always made her throw up.

Elia was throwing up much more now, too. Sometimes she could keep some fruit down, but any meal she had, it would come out within minutes. Her skin had become itchy too. What was with this pregnancy of hers? The first two or three moons were meant to be the most distressing – she was now approaching her fifth moon, and she looked thinner than she had at the start. She had the bulging stomach, but elsewhere, her arms, her legs – the flesh were melting away from her bones. The heightened anxiety heightened her anger, and it was with the strictest self-control that she didn't lash back at Cersei. She would never give her the satisfaction.

It was after she had thrown up four times this day already, and had sat at the table for supper with a stomach that was already rolling that Elia finally lost this control.

'Poor Elia, I almost wish for the death of your child, that it may spare yours,' Cersei had whispered her curse venomously, eyes glinting like wildfire.

'Should my child die, I will certainly take yours in forfeit, Cersei,' she had snapped back but hadn't finished. 'Don't mistake manners for weakness. I realise you have neither, but be warned not to test my patience, else you'll find out just how poisonous snakes can be.'

They had stared at each other. Cersei had been the first to look away. Straight at her father, and Elia had waited with abated breath for the rebuke. Tywin Lannister had looked at her, impassively, and then continued to sup.

'Father,' Cersei had whined.

'Learn some manners from your Good-Sister,' he'd told her without deigning to even look up. 'You need to polish yours.'

There were angry tears in Cersei's eyes and she felt her anxiety leaping. She could feel the movement of her child, she had the Maester assuring her repeatedly that her child was fine, it was not the child he worried over. They had tried all remedies for sickness and none agreed with her. 'All you and your babe need is nourishment,' he despaired.

She paced in her chambers, paced between the vomiting, and finally came to a decision. She squared her shoulders and knocked on Tywin Lannister's solar at an indecently late hour.

'My grandmother writes to me that she misses me dearly. She is unwell, and may not live much longer. May I please extend her an invitation to visit?'

He couldn't refuse a Targaryen Princess by birth, could he? He didn't and she heaved a sigh of relief. Her grandmother would know what needed to be done.

* * *

He'd never heard kind, gentle Elia snap, and that more than anything made him venture into the gardens. Jaime had continued to give her flowers regularly, as an unspoken apology for choosing Cersei. He felt guilty but couldn't stop himself from seeking Cersei's succour.

Cersei preferred roses, only the most perfect of them. Elia's preference had always been variety - she liked surprises. Today, he chose an orange, perfectly bloomed rose. He surrounded this rose with a handful of orange blossoms; it wasn't the blood oranges she frequently pined for, but he hoped they would make her feel less homesick.

When he entered her chambers, he wasn't surprised to see an absence of smile on her face. He'd recognised that they'd increasing become more forced and less sincere of late.

'Some flowers for my lady,' he smiled his brightest, most charming of smiles. She took them in her hands, inspected them for a few moments, and then, with nary a change in expression, flung them into the fire.

'Save the flowers for somebody that appreciates them,' her eyes glinted like sharp flints.

'What have I done to earn your ire?' Jaime exclaimed, regretting it a moment later. Elia would never know of his passions with Cersei, but it was still a wrong against her.

'Perhaps it's not stopping your sister from openly insulting me daily? Maybe it's not even waiting until I've put on weight and become unattractive before seeking solace from someone else? Or maybe it is the insult to my pride that you think you can buy me with these pathetic little baubles?' Her voice grew icier with the words and Jaime had to fight the impulse to step away, the words hurting all the more for the truth within them.

'Treat me with some respect, _wife_. You forget your place, you forget who you're talking to,' he retorted.

'I think it is you that forgets himself, _my lord_. After all, most husbands wouldn't be spending time with their,' she paused. There was an unsettling piercing look on her face, a cunning, all-knowing mien that had Jaime's heart thundering in his throat, pulsating wildly through his head. She couldn't possibly know. 'Their _bits of muslin_ ,' she said at last, but Jaime felt as if she meant something entirely else.

His fear was the ignition to the gunpowder of his guilt. He knew he would regret his words but he hurled them anyway. 'If you desire me in your bed so much, perhaps I shall return and treat you as I would a _bit of muslin_?'

Her laugh was brittle and acidic, mocking him openly. 'As if I would allow you to touch me again.'

'You're my wife, I don't need permission,' he sneered at her, wondering at the monster she was turning him into.

'It'll be with me kicking and punching and screaming at you.' She'd tilted her head back as an open challenge, her slender neck stretched taut like a bow, her piercing gaze the arrows.

'Maybe that won't stop me,' he retorted, hating her for her mockery, for her biting words.

'Then I should have just married the Targaryen boy. Maybe it was my own stupidity that made me see more in you than there is.'

He stepped away in surprise. Her sneer grew, ugly on her face. 'What? Did you think we were unaware that I was King Aerys' preference? Did you think it wasn't my decision to make? I suppose I was wrong about your intelligence, as well as your character.'

Jaime fled the room before he smacked her, his anger mixing uneasily with his guilt.


	3. III

**Disclaimer** **:** As always, I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and nor do I make any profit from this story.

 **Author's Note** **:** Apologies for taking so long to update this story. Needless to say, this story isn't abandoned. It's just slow-going and unfortunately, real life has been a real stinker for the past few months. Hopefully (tentatively) things look like they might be improving.

As always, a huge thank you for favouriting this story to: Aelin08, AndrianaWarrior7, Bryan Brolsen, Dianne060807, Femmefanficfreak, Hoegh, Jake.K, KOriginalAddict, LilyInTheValley, LovePearls, Okitta, Poisoninja, Raikiri's Edge, Rosalie end Jacob, SUNSHINGIRL, Sblck, Sithlord king, Slayer6nf, TaniaMalfoyFelton, Tatah Nunes, TheMoonsAndSuns, Trysten Osgrey, Zexs, .1992, betterjocelyn, cat105, daenerys and khal drogo 4ever, devilsmaster2, iron aegis, jjcoolblue, justaddyoghurt, justenb7, kristiwildangel, laila95, lightwalnut64, minoming, purplepam, shailjajoshi37, shin18theOtakubooklover, tricia911114, and yankessegirl.

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Reviews to those I can't reply personally:

Elissa – better late than never. And I am definitely not abandoning this story. I hope you enjoy reading this latest chapter.

Guest – I know it seems out of the blue… But there is a reasoning behind it all. It'll come to light sooner or later (probably later, at the rate this story is developing. I think it will be a lot longer than I had initially envisioned).

Ann: Elia still has time. Remember that she's just gotten married and entered a new household, one that she knows has bad blood with her mother, and just found out that she's pregnant. It's a lot of changes all at once.

As always, reviews of any kind are always welcome. Loved something or hated something, please let me know what you think of it.

* * *

 **Birds Flying High**

The Targaryen Princesses arrived within a fortnight at Lannisport, almost as if they had set sail before waiting for Tywin's reply. _Princesses_ , not princess. He hadn't been able to control the twitch in his eyebrow when he had seen both of them descending, and in perfect health no less.

Rhae Dayne had been fleshier than in her youth, when her beauty had been sighed after, but she still maintained remnants of it, despite the double chin. Her silvery hair held some white but remained thick and lustrous, and her demeanour announced the honour her presence bestowed to those around her. Elia Martell's Great-Grandmother from her father's side – and arriving unannounced. It was Daella Martell who drew his eye, who drew every eye. Her yellow hair remained cut close to her head, as she had styled so many years ago when she had first wedded. It made her face all the more striking, with its strong jawline and heavy angles, the masculine hint to her face. It was where Moniellar had received her arresting looks and stubborn personality from. She'd always been the no-nonsense, unimpressed sort, the kind that sniffed at grandeur and rolled her eyes at ineptitude. She had been an inspiration to Tywin Lannister in the days when his father had done his best to destroy his house and eviscerate the family pride. Now, he couldn't wait to rid her from his manse before she had entered it.

The natural curl of Elia's smile, the closely guarded relief she felt at their arrival, her continued anxiety over her unborn child, made their presence undesirable but tolerated for Tywin.

'Lord Lannister,' Princess Daella's voice was not quite disrespectful. Tywin bristled all the same. Targaryen or not, impressive woman in her own rights or not, she was a guest and ought to behave accordingly.

'Princess Daella,' he bowed appropriately, but there was a glint in his eye as he rose. 'How is your health?'

'My health is perfectly fine,' she replied as she looked up at him, down her imperial nose. 'I am sick, however, of the nonsensical girls surrounding me. They all have less common-sense than a grain of sand.'

Tywin's lips twitched just the slightest. Such clever wordplay, and he couldn't very well turn the Princess away now, not without insulting the Crown and Dorne both. She was the sort to make herself at home at the cost of his comfort and peace of mind, she would stay as long as she and her granddaughter desired it, and then a little longer just to spite him. Yes, even in her dotage, as some were inclined to say, she was formidable but an inspiration.

'Welcome to my humble home,' he drily said when they arrived an hour later.

'Humble?' She quizzed him.

'Belén can show you to your chambers, I shall have some refreshments sent to your solar,' Tywin's words were clipped but polite.

'No need,' Princess Daella responded with a grim smile. 'Send the refreshments to Princess Elia's chambers. I shall be there.'

' _Lady Lannister_ no doubt would like some rest before supping this evening,' Tywin's words were even more clipped.

'Stuff and nonsense, she would like to spend time with me, I'm sure,' she responded just as promptly. The mulish looks they both wore were identical.

'It would be nice to reconnect with my great granddaughter. You can always lead us to our chambers later. Elia's chamber will suit our purposes for now.' Princess Rhae broke the stalemate. Tywin gave in as graciously as he could (which was not at all) and left the women to their devices.

* * *

'You don't look well,' were the first words out of Daella's mouth, and Rhae had to bite back a sigh. Daella wasn't a kind woman, the world had never let her be one. Her own sister had never let her be one. Rhae pushed away the familiar guilt and assessed Elia. Daella was right. Elia didn't look healthy at all.

'I don't feel well Grandmother,' Elia responded bluntly. Rhae couldn't help but feel like an outsider with these two, who were so happy without blandishments, with brutal honestly that often had Rhae wincing.

'We'll get you sorted out,' Rhae said soothingly, only to be faced with a sceptical face of Elia's and an exasperated one of her older sister's. She felt her colour rising and looked away from them.

'We'll work on it,' Daella agreed eventually, and it irked Rhae at the reassurance Elia clearly felt from _Daella's_ words. 'Now tell me about this husband of yours. He seems taken with you.'

The shutters came down over her eyes, her face became a blank canvas. 'Things are fine.'

'Now, child, don't be shy. I was married to a Martell, you know,' Daella's eyes held a hint of mischief, keeping the familiar sorrow at bay. Heartbreak never left, not completely. 'I could probably tell you tales that would make your toes curl as much as your lovely locks.'

'Must we gossip about such stupid nonsense?' Elia snapped, her hands fisted. 'Is this all the reason you've come here?' Tears suddenly sprang to her eyes, tears which were probably caused by the babe in her belly. Rhae couldn't quite work out the reason for her anger though. It was so unlike her. The thought that this cold rock of theirs, these cold people were stealing their Elia and her warmth nudged at her, wouldn't leave her alone. She shivered, even though the fire blazed ferociously in these chambers.

'None of this nonsense,' Daella said as Rhae went over to her great-granddaughter, put her arms around the thin girl. 'What's been happening? Last I heard from you, he was spending every night in your chambers and you were doing wonderfully in wooing him.' The only sounds in the room were the crackles of the fire, throwing dancing shadows against the wall, and the suppressed sobs from Elia. 'What have you been doing?' Daella demanded, done with patience. Rhae bit back a retort as Elia took a shuddering breath in and braced herself.

'This _baby_ happened,' she said, words laced heavy with resentment.

' _You_ don't want this baby?' Daella said slowly as Rhae's hands stilled in shock, in the middle of rubbing Elia's back soothingly. What mother didn't want her child?

'What's wrong with you?' The words left her lips before Rhae could stop them, harsh and unyielding. She couldn't regret them. What could a woman do that a man couldn't, other than childbirth? And after the despair she'd seen women fall into because they couldn't bring life into the world – it was ungrateful in the least, something far more heinous at its worst…

'Rhae!' She wasn't entirely surprised to hear Daella snapping at her but her eyes were trained on Elia's, one filling with tears and betrayal, the other… Well, she didn't know what her eyes looked like but she was certain they weren't kind or playful or any of the other adjectives people had ascribed to her over the years.

'Leave!' These words weren't from Daella, though they were spoken with the same authority. She took her time to look Elia up and down before leaving the room, _on her own accord_.

* * *

Daella had let the silence envelope them in its warm arms and glared into the fire until Elia's throttled sobs had settled into sniffles before sitting beside her. Non-verbal solidarity. Actions always spoke louder than words – her husband had taught her that, and she still lived faithfully by them.

'Don't mind my sister. She doesn't realise there are women who have more than looks, charm and a womb. She's as much a pampered child as she's always been,' which was still a twisted compliment of sorts, considering the horrifying life experiences they'd shared.

'It's fine,' Elia said resolutely, before blowing her nose even more resolutely into the handkerchief she'd produced out of thin air. A lady and yet not one, Daella thought with that overwhelming love she always had for her family, the one she had chosen. Not the ones she had left behind, never them.

Daella let slip a long sigh; this child was so much like her daughter that it hurt sometimes. The same bloody-minded stubbornness, the pig-headed ideas she got, the deepest of extremes wrapped in a closely guarded, tightly controlled quiet exterior. It was always the quiet ones who felt the most.

She brought her hands to Elia's head, stroked it with a gentleness that nobody but the family of her choosing had discovered.

' _He_ doesn't want the child?' she hazarded a guess once Elia had stopped so much as sniffling.

'I wouldn't know. He's barely talked to me since finding out,' the bitterness made Elia's otherwise pretty face gnarled and wretched to look at.

Daella let the silence comfort them before she continued. 'You love him?'

'No,' came the instant rejoinder, too swift and far too vehement to be truthful and Daella sighed. She'd advised Elia to make the boy fall in love with her, had been explicit and emphatic about how that was the best protection. She knew all about the mess Moniellar and Tywin and Joanna had made together, and it was with significant misgiving (that her sometimes idiotic and naïve daughter hadn't shared) that she'd accepted the wedding. She had never warned Elia not to fall in love in return but it was clearly how she had taken it.

'When did you tell him?' _How did you tell him_ , but she knew better than to ask _that_ question.

'I didn't. People found out.' She was in full sullen mode. Whenever she had done something she had been prohibited, had done something too strenuous and not stopped, or something dangerous and foolish _just because_ , she had always become sullen, refusing responsibility or blame. The Mother bless her, Elia was still but a child. What was Tywin doing to her?

'How did they find out?' Her tone was as gentle as the stroking of the rough hair. Were all those people right about Elia's frailty? After she'd survived the first moon, then the second, then the third, they'd stopped believing in it but perhaps they had been wrong to. Perhaps not. Frail women oft succeeded in childbirth, and robust women like Joanna were known to succumb to its dangers.

'I fell off a horse and,' she paused before looking defiantly at her grandmother. 'I must have clutched at my stomach or something.' Or something, indeed. She knew full well she had.

'And that's how he found out?'

'That's how he found out.'

Did this make things better or worse? Daella didn't know, not without knowing the dratted boy himself. She'd make sure to change that, at her first opportunity.

She sighed and wrapped her beloved treasure into her arms, offering what protection she could.

* * *

They started with small changes, although what Princess Daella Targaryen considered small clearly wasn't so, if the frequent twitching of Tywin's eyebrows were anything to go by. Even as Elia recognised the unholy glee in her grandmother's eyes, she recognised the carefully subdued ire in her Good-Father's. However, he said nothing.

As Elia had predicted, Cersei threw a fit, and even though Elia had prepared herself, she still found herself flinching when Cersei spoke. She spoke so eloquently, about the traditions of their families, about the wonderful care and reputation of their Maester (who seemed relieved to have the Princess taking over her care, truthfully), about how health differs in different locations, and who knows better than those that have lived their lives here...

Cersei's open malice and disdain, Elia could withstand, but Cersei's malevolence towards Elia's unborn child, her own niece or nephew? That sort of hatred Elia couldn't comprehend, didn't want to, but it frightened her to her bone marrow. She was already failing her child without ever meaning to. Unable to protect her child from her own sickly health, let alone such wicked ill-will towards them…

'Clearly not you, nor your Maester are all-knowing or infallible,' Princess Daella interrupted Cersei's glib words when her patience ran out. 'Unless Joanna has been hiding for the past decade?'

The silence was brittle, rife with strain. Cersei turned an unpleasant shade of red, the same shade Lady Delia Vaclav changed to with too much alcohol, Elia noted with distraction.

'Be careful how you speak to a Princess,' her grandmother warned the blonde the moment she opened her mouth to retort, and, without rush, turned her back to the Lannister and walked away with Elia in tow.

The hand on Elia's arm was as strong as it had ever been, clutching the thin arm that quivered despite Elia's best efforts. Once they were out of earshot, her grandmother turned to her, eyes too knowing. 'She hates you, doesn't she?' She read the answer she didn't need in Elia's countenance. 'Has she tried to harm you? Or the baby?'

There was that undercurrent Elia had never heard in her Grandmother's voice, except when Maelys Blackfire was ever mentioned, the one that had all those receiving it pale a few dozen shades. 'I don't think so,' Elia got the words through her dry lips, eyes darting left and right, aware that nobody here held any loyalty to her, nobody would keep these words from Tywin's ears.

'Let him hear of this,' her grandmother said contemptuously, her grip painful now. 'In fact, I shall say these words to his face, directly. I do not fear him.'

 _Yes, because you can leave_ , Elia wanted to say. _And you are Targaryen, as Dornish as you may be now_. She kept her lips closely pressed together, unwilling to alienate the only ally she had.

They entered her grandmother's chambers, where Ingrid quickly placed fruits that would form Elia's sustenance before the evening meal. Not the pulp of it, no. The fruits were skinned by Ingrid's careful and exceptionally painstaking hands, and then squeezed for its juice. The juice alone was what Elia was given. She was just as hungry as she had been for the past moon, yet she was indeed feeling better. Her headaches were improving daily, her lips felt less dry, her urine burnt less… She drank the juice and didn't hide her relief when she didn't vomit. Whether it was her grandmother's presence or the instructions of her former Maester, Elia felt her health improving.

Still, she braced herself for a storm this night.

* * *

Tywin was careful to show no evidence of his supreme displeasure with his daughter, not yet, not before the first part of the meal had been laid to table. They began with a vegetable broth that would have perfectly suited his Good-Daughter, had her domineering grandmother allowed her to eat at the table. The insult was obvious to all, except for his son, it seemed. It was infuriating that he couldn't deny it. Worse, his spies were inept, unable to identify the perpetrator so far. As spoilt as his daughter was, he couldn't imagine she would be stupid enough to endanger Elia or her child again.

Apparently, she was stupid enough to openly oppose a Targaryen Princess that still held significant political clout. What did this bode for her future as Queen? Words of her misbehaviour had reached him before his daughter had, tantrum as irritating as the ones she'd had when they had been justifiable by her age.

'I think somebody is trying to harm Elia or her babe,' Princess Daella stated calmly, as soon as the servers had left the room. Her eyes hadn't rested on Cersei and Tywin was reminded of class born to against class learnt. Was it because Joanna had died before Cersei knew how to behave herself? Or was it a deficiency in her?

'I completely agree with you,' he answered her calmly. He found it fascinating how identical Princess Rhae's bloodless and Elia's nerveless visages were. In the few days since her grandmother's arrival, Elia's skin had begun to regain its bloom and her hair already had returned to its former glowing sheen, he had noticed with no outward pleasure. It had confirmed things for him, stoking the flames his fury already fostered. 'I have been trying to find the culprit. Without success,' he admitted with a grimace. He continued to sip his broth as Princesses Daella stared at him, the only person not unnerved but appraising instead. Whatever it was seemed to soothe much of her bile, for she suddenly seemed conciliatory, obliging even, as she thanked him. What? Did that woman honestly think he wanted Elia dead? Or his grandchild? The thought gnawed at him. He was careful to let conversation slowly build before his eyes found his son, sat beside his twin. He was doing his best to cajole her out of her bad humour, but every while, his eyes turned towards his wife, who never looked at him once during the meal. His son, who ordinarily wore his feelings openly like a woman, kept his expression carefully neutral.

His eyes found his Dornish Good-Daughter, the one who, for all her soft-spoken ways, still held some of the views and manners of her land. She had snapped at Genna and rather than taking umbrage, Genna had instead taken a shine to Elia. _'Because you don't value Tyrion as you should, and apparently neither do I,_ ' she had told him with her usual frankness, that sharp glance in her eyes, as she accused without ever accusing him. He'd chosen to ignore it; her wits were too valuable to encourage estrangement.

Tonight, the meal was as limited as he could make it, with only his twins, his Dornish Good-Daughter and her Targaryen relatives present, desiring as few witnesses as possible for this confrontation. He was sure the servants heard this conversation though, and if it spread, even better. It might be a way to smoke out the bastard risking the life and health of his grandchild.

Yes, inaction had never been to his taste; maybe it was time to take the offensive…

* * *

'Who is the whore that the foppish boy is fucking?' Rhae asked as she entered Daella's room. There was no apology, not in words, but this was the best she could offer her sister. Rhae knew she would accept it for what it was.

'We're not certain…' Daella said slowly, staring into her looking glass once more. For pride and nostalgia, she still took care with her skin. _Its loveliness would rival our prettiest maidens_ , her husband had told her shyly when they had first made tentative gestures towards intimacy…

'But you're certain he is fucking someone else?' Rhae asked, still child enough to use coarse language as a banner of her rebellious streak, a habit she couldn't quite break.

'Suddenly spending his nights elsewhere after he spent them all in Elia's chambers?' Daella asked her drily.

'Elia wasn't too _clingy_ , was she?' Rhae asked, only to be faced with an enraged glare from her older sister. 'Never mind.'

'You think it's Elia's fault that he's now spending his nights anywhere but with her? And plying her with flowers of guilt?'

'He gets her flowers?' Rhae perked up at the words, disregarding the others. She accepted that she had deserved this rebuke. It was foolish to question Elia in this regard; perhaps the more apt question would have been if Elia had been too cold, but she knew that wouldn't be well received either.

'Yes, pathetic,' her sister stated to her mirror, and again, Rhae silenced her disagreement. She had come here to make peace.

'Who do you think it is, then? Don't try to tell me you don't have any idea…' Rhae warned her sister, fully aware that she wasn't always privy to all of the affairs. She resisted the urge to fidget, withstanding Daella's unyielding scrutiny.

'That serving girl, Bélen,' Daella informed her at last.

'That red-headed girl?' Rhae exclaimed, aghast. The girl wasn't her notion of beauty at all. Not only was her hair that nasty shade of red where the eyelashes were so light as to be invisible, she was also covered in freckles and had unsightly lips, the sort that were so large that they lost shape and definition. Elia, not the most beautiful of ladies even in her biased opinion, was striking and delightful in comparison.

'Haven't you noticed her hauteur? In a girl of her class? Serving those who are considerably above her in station and everything else?'

It was beginning to make sense. That smirk on her face had irked Rhae from the first day, and she had never bothered to hide her contempt from Elia. As well, her closeness to Cersei, the clear affection they held for each other… Other than Jaime, she hadn't seen the blonde bitch care for anyone else, not even her youngest brother, and that affection for the redhead would make sense if she was fucking Jaime…

'What are we going to do?'

'I wanted to poison the wench, be rid of her completely,' Daella said, once again staring at her sister. What was this nonsense? Was death so new to her, after the death of Rhaenys… The thought choked her, the familiar sorrow engulfing her as always, just as did the wrath. If she had the chance to kill Maelys Blackfyre herself, she would have done it with no hesitation.

'That sounds fine to me,' Rhae answered when she realised her sister was waiting for her reply.

'Elia would rather make a very public example of her,' Daella replied and Rhae's eyes widened. Maybe her little great-niece was not such a spineless, sweet being after all…


	4. IV

**Disclaimer** **:** As always, I don't own A Song of Ice and Fire, and nor do I make any profit from this story.

 **Author's Note** **:** Apologies for taking so long to update this story. Needless to say, this story isn't abandoned. It's just slow-going and unfortunately, real life has been a real stinker for the past few months. Hopefully (tentatively) things look like they might be improving.

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Reviews to those I can't reply personally:

Elissa – better late than never. And I am definitely not abandoning this story. I hope you enjoy reading this latest chapter.

Guest – I know it seems out of the blue… But there is a reasoning behind it all. It'll come to light sooner or later (probably later, at the rate this story is developing. I think it will be a lot longer than I had initially envisioned).

Ann: Elia still has time. Remember that she's just gotten married and entered a new household, one that she knows has bad blood with her mother, and just found out that she's pregnant. It's a lot of changes all at once.

As always, reviews of any kind are always welcome. Loved something or hated something, please let me know what you think of it.

* * *

 **Birds Flying High**

Seven nights after her grandmother's arrival, Elia was permitted food. It was limited to fruits and vegetables, all of which were cleaned and peeled by Ingrid alone before Elia ate it raw. But after a week of only drinking juice and months of vomiting every mouthful, this felt like blessings from the Seven, the Warrior included. Elia was slowly becoming less breathless with the meagre distances she could now manage. Her fitness had never been as vigorous as Oberyn's, but it had become worse than Old Granny Haas', that old witch.

Even Cersei's tantrums couldn't disrupt Elia's great mood. Vengeful triumph was its foundation, and her improving health was better than spitting in Cersei's face. It was exhausting, certainly, but with her grandmother beside her and Tywin acknowledging malevolence directed at her, Elia felt more certain of support, if not safety. But oh, how exhausting the tantrums were. How did Cersei have so much energy to throw into each perceived slight? If she turned such energy into achieving something worthwhile, something good, the world could have been so improved.

It wasn't just her improving health that soured Cersei's moods, although Elia was more certain of Cersei's loathing each day. Something had spoiled between Jaime and Cersei; he kept his distance from his sister, though he hadn't returned to Elia's side, except for one feeble presentation with flowers. Elia had thrown those into the fire as swiftly as she had the last ones. It was Cersei who now tried to cajole him to no avail.

Tywin Lannister was up to something. Elia was finally confident that it wasn't against her. He seemed genuinely irritated by somebody trying to harm Elia, or rather her baby.

'He takes family obligations very seriously,' her grandmother told her, understated. That was something they both understood, and furthermore, valued.

Things were improving, leaving a sense of optimism akin to euphoria within Elia, but even so, she couldn't bring herself to forgive Rhae Dayne. Elia wouldn't forgive such a large insult, nor such a betrayal. What sort of woman would judge another so harshly? Rhae may have been Dayne in name but there was nothing of Dorne within her. She was little more than a spoilt Targaryen princess. Elia had no patience or sympathy for such people. Rhae and Cersei could make a matching pair!

Bélen had worsened, saccharine sweetness coating her smirks. She played the role of migniard well, crowing her victory subtlely whilst carefully maintaining her dainty front in front of the Lannisters by birth. Elia wanted to snap her thin little fingers one by one and crush her tiny body into dust with her bare hands. The highest of courtesans in Dorne never showed such presumption or arrogance. A common light-skirt like her shouldn't behave in this way, and she hated Jaime for heaping such humiliation on her.

That night, she sat at a dinner more formal than those she had become accustomed to in the past week. The Lannisters, all of them, were present. Conversation flowed as much as the wine did, the finest of Dornish Red savoured by all. When the sweet-dishes were laid on the table, Tywin cleared his throat quietly, and the table hushed.

'It is my pleasure to announce that my daughter has received the distinction of being invited to join the Queen's retenue,' he revealed. Even Cersei hadn't known; she pinked pleasingly. 'We will miss her, but such honour cannot be dismissed, and she will leave us day after the morrow. Genna has kindly agreed to chaperone her, whilst I am needed at home.' His eyes found Elia's.

* * *

'What do you mean Jaime isn't coming with me?' Cersei snarled gracelessly at her father as he watched her dispassionately.

'If my place is waiting the birth of my grandchild, where do you think his place is?'

'With family that matters,' Cersei snapped back at him, beginning her pace around his solar again. Once, Tywin had hoped that all this pacing, all this screaming, would have tired his daughter enough to shorten these crude fits. He'd long learnt not to nurture such hopes.

'With the implication that _I_ don't matter?' His voice was colder than the ice that surrounded the Starks, warning her. As always, she didn't heed them.

'Yes,' she tilted her chin out challengingly, eyes flashing with turbulence that Joanna's had never held. How was she the daughter they had produced? This feeling of failure soiled him so, so he shrugged it off. He didn't bother slapping her; it seemed to have little effect on her.

'This is the reason why I am sending you away,' he said, at long last, letting the silence drag on until her nerves had frayed themselves further. His pampered selfish daughter deserved this much, this fraying of her nerves as she had frayed those around her, but also his honesty. 'You are stupid. Unless I send you away, I fear the stupidity and selfishness will consume you.'

'How _dare_ \- '

He interrupted her dispassionately. 'You are self-centred beyond excuse. To think highly of yourself, as a Lannister, is understandable. It's right and proper. To think only of yourself, not your family, not your name… That is unforgivable.'

Her breasts were heaving from the strength of her emotions. Her father eyed her again, coldly. The cold sunlight that permeated his Solar glinted off her hair like spun gold, casting an angelic tinge to her skin. She was a beautiful girl, she was indeed. She wasn't as stupid as he had claimed her to be, not yet. Not if he could salvage it. But she lacked what Elia had, what Daella had… She could only ever see the worth within herself, never of those around her. She would certainly think of how they could benefit her, but she never had worked out to make those _around_ her _wish_ to aid her. Elia and Daella could and would and did manipulate those around them, but they also did so with an awareness of what it would mean if those others took offense.

'I thought you wanted to become Queen one day?' He asked her at last, the flush receding from her chest. 'Is that no longer your greatest wish?'

'Of course, it is,' she said so contemptuously that he believed it as the truth. Something lifted off his chest. There was still time to salvage her; had something trivial like _love_ or _Jaime_ been of most import to her… But they weren't. A blow to his pride would hurt, but it could be the making of his legacy, Cersei. Jaime and Elia could handle themselves; certainly, they would not ruin the family name as his father had done. Cersei was the gamble.

'Then see it as a challenge to become the Queen you ought to be,' he told her slowly, watching for her reaction closely. She had vainglory in abundance, and appealing to it made much more sense than appealing to her kindness or sense of decorum… He frowned again. Yes, he had erred in her upbringing, but if he couldn't mould her into what she needed to be, he would discard her far away, where she wouldn't taint the family name beyond the minimum.

* * *

Jaime avoided Cersei, but he couldn't refuse her their last night together when she entered his room. The passion burnt hot and fierce. Yet, for once, it felt wrong, empty, and he couldn't work out why. Worse, he had nobody to talk to. Who would accept him with his forbidden sins?

He sat beside Elia when they broke their fast, avoiding both her eyes and Cersei's. He missed her warm smile, her softly caressing eyes. He missed _her_. And though she was in the right, his pride prevented him from making sincere overtures.

'You are the reason my mistress is leaving, _Dornish snake_. You've poisoned My Lord's mind and you'll pay for this, slut,' the words were almost too low for Jaime to hear, but he did. The sudden rush of anger brought his fists before him, recoiling after reaching Bélen's cheek, her face flushing red and then white, as she realised she had been overheard. He ignored Elia's eyes, piercing black with glitter of a hundred suns, or were they tips of poisoned spears?

'Would you like to repeat that, so that your Lord may hear how concerned you are for his well-being?' He spoke in a voice that rang throughout the Great Hall, drawing his father's attention intentionally.

'I highly doubt he would appreciate being thought feeble-witted enough to be swayed so easily, even by a _Dornish Snake_ ,' Elia hissed with malice, enjoying the serving girl's blanching. Jaime couldn't fault her for it.

'What is this?' His father's voice, spoken so softly, carried to all. 'Am I being accused of being feeble-witted, Good-Daughter?'

'Not by me, Good-Father. I would never dare to presume I could sway your mind or manipulate you,' Elia replied promptly, her eyes never leaving the red-headed girl. In the meagre sunlight, the shadows played across her face like demons, a vengeful one. Something hot within Jaime coiled and curled. His sweet little wife, he knew her to hold a grudge, but he never knew such sharpness within her, such fangs dripping with venom.

'I see. And who is this…' His father's eyes raked over Bélen's lithe figure callously, slowly, as she trembled in fear. 'Who _is_ this person that deems to know me so well?'

'Perhaps she feels herself entitled to it?' Elia helpfully said. 'She seems to know our family so well.' Said so smoothly, but she still emphasised the ownership, and the heat seemed to flow through Jaime's body, all the way to his fingertips. Fierceness of a lion, venom of a snake…

'Well, this must be rectified. If she knows us so well, maybe it is time that we get to know her as well?' His father was not one to be trifled with and the justice he would mete out would be cruel, that much Jaime knew. 'In fact, I am inclined to suggest that perhaps all of the men should get to know her better. _Intimately_ better.'

She trembled so hard that the bowls in her hands tinkled against each other and Bélen almost swooned where she stood. Elia watched her closely, unmoved by her display, and Jaime watched Elia. With the sun rising higher, the shadow demons had moved away but it shone prominently on the sharp, regal shape of her nose, the cheekbones that were delicate and high, the angles of her face that were yet rounded…

'Perhaps my Lord Husband, as your heir, would like to begin the procession of _getting to know her intimately_ …' Elia said, softly but clearly, no hesitation in her words, finally looking him straight into his eyes. His own flinched away.

* * *

His thin lips remained still but there was a deep sense of satisfaction within Tywin Lannister. Cersei hadn't bothered to defend her maid, though the girls had known each other since they were toddlers and he was certain the red-headed bitch was in love with his daughter. More fool her, if she thought her mistress would lift her little finger to defend her. Yes, he was quite satisfied with Cersei's self-preservation and selfishness, though it hadn't surprised him.

Conversely, Elia's rancorous streak and biting words had surprised him, and equally pleased him. She was quiet, well-spoken, always deferential and polite, which were all nice qualities but completely useless if that was all there was to her. The Warrior knew Jaime, for all his abilities at arms, was incapable of guarding his interests. The malevolence within Elia, her calm acceptance of his brutal punishment, and the spite within her words… Yes, she would protect her interests, which would become one and the same as his son's, once she gave birth. That not just pleased him greatly, he found himself beginning to maybe perhaps even _like_ her.

He delayed Cersei's departure by a day. She would attend Bélen's punishment; rape was a small cost for such insolence, and it would warn others who would deign to harm his Good-Daughter and his heir's heir. She didn't protest. He knew she would never think to take this as a warning towards herself, so he offered it to her in the simplest terms. 'If anything you do ever harms a Lannister, by marriage or not, you will suffer worse than her.' He looked at her unwaveringly until she finally looked away but she remained composed. She had many flaws, but her nerves of steel he could admire.

He didn't blink when, with the cold light of dawn painting the skies a blood-stained colour and the faces an unearthly pallor, Elia Lannister and Daella Martell arrived. Rhae Dayne had claimed headaches and tiredness and whichever ailment came to mind. Tywin paid her no heed. Nor did the other Dornish women. Emma Vaclav, Hermione Wickaninnish and Willamina Wickaninnish, along with the other Dornish maids and serving girls, stood a little behind their ladies of greater prominence, firm and tall, their faces resolute. There was solidarity there, women who would be loyal to his Good-Daughter and Grandson. He hadn't considered it appropriate previously but perhaps wedding the higher-born of the Dornish women to his bannermen, or better, those whose loyalty he wished to obtain, could benefit him.

Tyrion stood beside his Good-Daughter, leaning towards her wide skirt a little. He was too young to participate in the punishment, if he could at all, and all were aware, but it was clearly Elia's doing that brought him here. The slanted glances thrown at him persisted, but where a year ago, he would have shrunk entirely behind the skirts of his Nursing Maid, he now faced them with uncertain result. The slanted glances, too, were fewer in number – his Good-Daughter's doing. He would have to watch his Good-Daughter's influence, particularly over his youngest son.

When all of his men at arms had arrived, he nodded to his Jaime, white in the watery sunlight, the wind whipping his long, golden hair around him. He was too far away to have his expressions dissected but his father stood beside him, saw the resolute shape to his chin, his lips unyielding and firm, for once. Tywin saw his eyes sweep the spectators, pause over a pretty face, one that stared unflinchingly, before he resumed the duties he had been given this chilly morning.

* * *

Bélen was silent by the end of her ordeal. Blood and filth surrounded her. Still, Elia found no sympathy to spare. There was no doubt in her mind that the maid, in the loosest sense of the word now, had had a hand in poisoning Elia and her babe but on whose orders? After closely observing her husband, she was equally certain that he _hadn't_ done so. If Tywin Lannister was innocent too, that left only one possibility.

Cersei Lannister.

It didn't surprise her. What surprised her pleasantly was Tywin's decision to cart the witch far away. He had made it abundantly clear, for such a reticent man, that it was for her and her babe's health. She was extremely pleased with that.

The nausea was merely a memory now. The sordid and cruel actions today had done nothing to raise her bile or worse. That confirmed, had she needed it, that somebody had been poisoning her. Hopefully she could now return to solid meals.

'Halt,' Tywin's words cut through the wind like a sharpened bow. Bélen was dropped mercilessly to the ground by the two serving-girls who were trying to support her back into Casterley Rock; she lay there trembling. Nobody dared move. Such was the sway that he held.

'Bring him out here.' His voice wasn't raised but it still reached every ear in that chilly day, the wind whipping anyone that braved it. Any other person, and there would have been a swell of conjectures at this words. As it was, nobody spoke. They watched as two men went into the building and dragged out a thin, wiry old man, in pitiful tears.

The weather seemed to hold itself still in anticipation; the wind died down to a weak breeze and the sun peeked out from behind the clouds. The old, weak man was a snivelling mess, begging for mercy incoherently. He should've known better.

'This man,' Tywin's voice rang out clearly. 'Was found to be adding crushed shells from shelled fish to the dishes. Small enough quantity for it not to be tasted, but enough for someone sensitive to it to react.'

 _So simple_ ; not even a poison. Elia felt disgusted by her own weaknesses for the first time. Her own pathetic body had betrayed her.

'What would you do with such a man, Good-Daughter?'

Was it a challenge? An opportunity to prove herself or a ploy to play with her? Elia didn't know. She could only trust herself. The man had turned towards her now, beseeching words slipping out between sobs.

'It is highly unlikely he would do this of his own volition,' Elia shouted to be heard. Her voice was not resonant enough, lacked the natural bellow Tywin's voice had contained. 'It would behove us to monitor for someone higher placed that means us ill.' She kept her eyes trained on this mess of a man. She was too far away to hear any of his words and she was glad of it. It wouldn't have swayed her decision – she was not so lacking in will – but it would have been unpleasant. 'I see no need for treachery in my household,' she said with finality. 'I see no reason to burden other households with weak will or treachery either; it is not becoming in us, as families of character and duty. I would kill him.'

She stepped forward to make true her words. A leader never passed a judgment they couldn't bring forth themselves.

'I shall do it, on behalf of my wife and family,' Jaime beat her to it and Elia let him.

* * *

Cersei's voyage began with no great fanfare. The dead man and the wench that was now slowly dying inside Casterley Rock forged a sombre environment. Even Cersei found her spirits oppressed, although this was the very important first step towards her crown.

The atmosphere was no lighter inside the carriage they travelled within. Aunt Gemma accompanied Cersei as a chaperone and brought with her a few other matrons, but none even remotely close to Cersei in age. They were highly impertinent too. They shared smiles they didn't think she noticed when she got frustrated, and they talked to her as you would a child. It was _not_ acceptable.

They stayed regularly at the abodes of their banner-men as they journeyed through the Westerlands, and by the second night, Cersei could bear it no longer. Once she had been settled for bed, she snuck out and knocked demandingly on her aunt's door. The displeasure was evident on her aunt's face when she opened it but what did that matter?

'Your women are behaving like mannerless beasts towards me,' she informed her aunt fiercely. Why did her father tolerate such a dim-witted woman, who couldn't pick up such nuances as these, that were below her very (large) nose?

'On the contrary, niece,' Aunt Gemme spoke with icicles forming in her words. 'They are behaving with great forbearance at your acts of petulance. Can you not act your age for even an hour?'

'How _dare_ you?' Cersei seethed with fury, words forced through angry, clenched teeth.

'I dare easily.' Her aunt spoke easily too, far too easily. Cersei would have words to write back to her father this next morning. 'Your father appointed me your guardian, although nursemaid would probably be more apt. He wants me to teach you basic manners that you lack but he also wants me to teach you intelligence, or failing that, cunning. I fear both might be beyond my means.'

Her aunt looked at her with a sharp glance. 'No doubt you'll whinge to your father in the morning. Please do so; I am sure his reply will offer me far more great pleasure that it will offer you. Go back to your chambers now, and pray that nobody sees you. Not all of your father's gold would save your reputation.' She closed the door without awaiting a reply and Cersei glared impotently at the wood before her.

The following morning, Cersei wasted no time in finding a raven and dispatching a letter to her father. She remained sullen and just courteous enough to her hosts to avoid giving offence. They continued with their journey and she was infuriated to see that her aunt's women noticed no change. Her words were ever icier and curt enough to be rude, when they bothered to speak to her at all. Their behaviour changed not at all. Knowing glances were shared and smirks were ill-disguised.

Two mornings later, on the edges of the Westerlands, Cersei received her reply. The letter was delivered by a maid that Cersei dismissed without noticing her. The writing was in her father's hand – pressed hard into the sheets to leave an impression. It was as her aunt had said and her anger bubbled angrily within her. Her father told her to mind her manners and mind her aunt, and see if she couldn't learn something from her aunt, while she was at it.

Well, she would make sure her aunt learned something too. Making an enemy of her niece would be dangerous, even for her own family, and she would enjoy teaching her aunt this lesson.


End file.
